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I could only murmur modestly that I hoped I could claim these
qualifications.
"And you don't think me a dreadful woman?"
"So far from it, Madame Brandt," I replied, "that I think you a
remarkable one."
"I wonder if I am," she said, sinking back among her cushions. "I should
like to be for Dale's sake. I suppose you know I care a great deal for
Dale?"
"I have taken the liberty of guessing it," said I. "And since you have
done me the honour of taking me so far into your confidence," I added,
playing what I considered to be my master-card, "may I venture to ask
whether you have contemplated"--I paused--"marriage?"
Her brow grew dark, as she looked involuntarily at her bare left hand.
"I have got a husband already," she replied.
As I expected. Ladies like Lola Brandt always have husbands unfit for
publication; and as the latter seem to make it a point of honour never
to die, widowed Lolas are as rare as blackberries in spring.
"Forgive my rudeness," I said, "but you wear no wedding ring.


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